local_library Sunday’s Child

by S.D. Parsons

Published in Issue No. 4 ~ July, 1996

Sunday’s child was never born.

With a flick
of the supple
she tripped
twisting down,
a bouquet of liquid,
rose petals
doing little.

Her cushioned fall.

ground to glass,
now junk,
by buttery,
rubbery fingers.

A scalpel’s clean grin
shines endlessly
her thin memory.

Another hostage
held against
the saline tied,
she slipped
into unwillingness;

Truer words
were never whispered;
these lies headline
tomorrow’s paper.

account_box More About

S.D. Parsons spends the majority of his time traveling the world in search of the perfect cappuccino. A Zen Buddhist at heart, he feels the downfall of all Western Civilization can be traced directly to man's inability to accept his neighbor's God. He says: "We stand on the cusp of great understanding, but our ignorance blinds us, keeps us from seeing the miracles unfolding right before our eyes."